Unyielding
by Ink On Paper
Summary: Because in a world of such uncertainity and carefully veiled half-truths, it's comforting to know that some things are unyielding.
1. Prologue

**A/N: Well. I haven't much to say for myself really, other than life has been extremely busy and I've hardly had time to catch my breath. I've missed you all! One thousand apologies for my promised summer fic that was, alas, an epic fail, as far as summer fics go. I do, however, come bearing a peace offering, of sorts, so long as my muse remains close and life allows brief moments to be stolen and dedicated to writing . . . I have absolutely no idea where Season 9 will take us, my friends. But _this_ is _my_ season, picking up where we left off at Pyramid and disregarding anything that shall occur after that first phoof on the premire tonight. I feel that this author's note is inadequate, and I worry that this piece may prove to be simultaneously more and less than what I expect. But we shall see. Ready? Much love and keep the peace, Kit.**

**DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything.**

**"PROLOGUE: WHEN THINGS FALL APART"**

The sky is threatening rain.

Again.

The clouds are thick and black and ominous as they hang heavily over the parched city. The radio station is calling for inclement weather and while he isn't one to doubt wannabe meteorologists, he decides, ultimately, to keep the jury in until he arrives at the office. Because, frankly, Gibbs' knee is a more reliable barometer than any interpretation of satellite images.

He slaps the spacebar twice and the computer monitor hums to life. He's just gotten settled behind his desk and is trying to take a sip of coffee when the elevator dings sharply and he jerks slightly in surprise, his chair rolling back, scalding liquid splashing his thigh and he had to he wear a grey suit to work today.

"Little bit jumpy this morning, DiNozzo," McGee acknowledges with a smirk as he passes Tony's desk and the man behind it, blotting furiously at his pant leg with a napkin. Tony just offers a dry, "Ha-ha," his face scrunched up at the blossoming stain. "Probie! Do you have one of those bleach pens?"

McGee glances up from his monitor with a quirked eyebrow, "You're going to put bleach on colored fabric?"

"_No_ . . . Do you have one of those color-safe bleach pens?"

"Bleach isn't color-safe," McGee states, staring at Tony like he's crazy.

And Tony merely rolls his eyes heavenward, "God help me. Do. You. Have. A. Stain. Removing. Pen?"

"No."

There's a thud as Tony's forehead connects with his desk and a strangled groan is issued into a neat stack of paperwork. McGee watches amusedly for a few brief moments before another thought occurs to him and he asks guardedly, "Why'd you assume I would even have one?"

Tony lifts his head up to regard McGee with a hybrid expression of incredulity and exasperation. "'Cause aren't good little Boy Scouts always prepared?"

"DiNozzo, we've been over this," and now it's McGee's turn to be annoyed, "I was a Webelos."

A pen cap is neatly lobbed at the younger man's head as Tony declares, "Same difference, McTide."

Gibbs sweeps into the squadroom, omnipresent Styrofoam cup in one hand and a manila file in the other. Steel blue eyes fall on both men, now dutifully working, noting McGee's greeting nod and Tony's usual, "Mornin' boss." In fact, the normalcy of the scene is downright unsettling; he half expected some sort of cosmic upheaval to be apparent, some sort of shift to have occurred in the light of the present situation.

Green eyes flicker upwards and Tony asks, "We got a case, boss?" And Gibbs merely blinks before shaking his head slowly.

He doesn't bother sitting down or softening the blow that waits to fall from his lips. There is no easing into the conversation; there isn't even a conversation to begin with. No introduction, no warning, no clever segue.

"Ziva resigned last night."

"What?" McGee's eyes snap to Gibbs as the younger man rises from his chair, shock clearly written across his face. "What do you mean 'resigned'? She _quit_?"

"Ziva resigned last night," Gibbs repeats with no more finesse than the original announcement. "I take it she didn't talk to you?"

"No! I-I would've talked her out of it –She _quit_?" Oh, Lord, please don't let Abby find out.

"You know anything about it, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks, attention falling on his senior agent. The color has drained from Tony's face as he sits, utterly still and totally dumbstruck. The sky suddenly releases the rain it had been holding back, the droplets falling to splash against the windows.

He slowly shakes his head, shifting his jaw, trying to get it to work properly. His eyes flicker to Ziva's desk and he inhales, replying, "No. . . . Maybe she went with Ray."

McGee chokes out a sarcastic bark of laughter that sounds inappropriately loud. "You think Ziva eloped?" he asks, aghast. "Are you _insane_?"

And Tony just looks tired. "I don't know, Tim," he answers, massaging his temple, "Maybe."

"First Franks, now this . . . What do we do, Boss? Cell records?"

"Leave it," Gibbs says, finally lowering himself into his chair. "Leave it alone. She made her decision. Let her go."

_Let her go. _

Because that plan worked so well last time, Tony thinks with another lingering, forlorn look to her desk.

**. . . **

He woke up with a tension headache, the pain starting at the base of his skull dully throbbing as he went about his morning. By the time a call rolls in around nine and Gibbs orders Tim to go gas the truck, Tony finds himself with a full blown migraine that Advil won't even touch.

The case is open and shut, a naval officer having been found dead in his apartment by his girlfriend of three years, apparently hit over the head, when, in fact, he'd fallen in the shower and stumbled into the living room, promptly expiring on the rug. It takes Ducky less than an hour to announce that the cause of death was an aneurysm that burst upon impact with the towel rack; the only reason the case took the better half of a day is the fact that, somehow, Corporal Pierson's remains took a four hour detour in which they were unaccounted for. Aside from that minor setback, there's the hysterical girlfriend, an ill-tempered Gibbs, and the migraine from hell.

And the fact that Abby's lab is still mourning along with the Goth herself, agonizing over the loss of two people very, very dear to her. Because Mike Franks has been dead exactly one month, eight days, and a handful of hours. And Ziva David has been gone exactly one month, ten days, and too many hours.

When eight-thirty rolls around and Gibbs dismisses his agents, Tony is both exhausted and restless as he gathers his things and shuts off his computer monitor.

"You got something you need to say, DiNozzo?" Gibbs asks without looking up after McGee disappears into the elevator, having moved faster than Tony in making his escape.

Tony inhales deeply, steeling himself. "Yeah, boss, actually, I do."

Blue eyes flicker up to meet hazel in a gaze that is impatient and expectant.

"Vance offered me the Rota post last week," Tony says on an exhale, the words running together in a rush.

Gibbs blinks. Waits. Prompts, "And?"

"And," a deep inhale, exhale, and, "I said yes."

Gibbs nods, his attention returning the file he'd been writing in, and Tony just stands there, slightly stumped. Ziva's been gone now for over a month, May having bled into mid-July with August rapidly approaching. The MCRT is already down an agent with no motion being made to fill the empty desk and Tony has just announced that he's leaving another vacancy and Gibbs doesn't seem the slightest bit perturbed –not that he ever seems perturbed, but still.

"You have nothing to say, no cryptic advice, no ass backward rule, nothing?" Tony asks, incredulous after the older man's silence stretches on too long. "I said I'm taking the post."

"I know what you said, DiNozzo," Gibbs says pointedly.

"_And_?" Demand has crept into the younger man's words

"And _what_?" Gibbs asks, looking back up at his senior field agent. "Good for you, Tony. Really."

Tony studies Gibbs critically and Gibbs smirks when it all clicks together in the younger man's mind. "You knew," Tony finally manages in disbelief. "You already knew."

"Well, yeah, DiNozzo."

"Vance told you."

"No."

"No?"

"No."

Tony blinks, paused in thought, and then finally concedes, "Okay."

"Okay," Gibbs repeats.

Okay.

**. . .**

He presses two keys on his cell phone, hits send. And somewhere another phone pings and a pair of dark eyes read the brief message_: OK . . . _

**_AN2: ?_**


	2. I

**A/N: I know, I know. I suck at updating. But, hopefully, I'll now keep a quasi-regular update schedule (Yeah, right. When have I ever been good at schedules?) Anyway, I do hope that I still have an interested audience, and I do hope that everyone is well! Much love and keep the peace, Kit!**

**DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.**

*****Special thanks to the ever lovely Zaedah who so kindly is betaing this piece. Zaedah -you rock.**

"And if I only could make a deal with God

and get Him to sway our places,

be running up that road, be running up that hill, be running up that building.

If I only could."

-Running Up That Hill, Placebo

ACQUAINTENCES

_Rota, Spain_

He stands under the shade of a building as the roar of a C-130 sounds overhead. The air is warm, balmy, comfortable, and it's a relief to be out of the stifling humidity of a D.C. heat wave. Two men walk past him, both dressed in fatigues, laughing at a punch line he's too far away to hear. He glances at his watch, takes a moment to discern the clock from under the glare caused by the surrounding brightness.

_3:49._

His ride should have been here four minutes ago-

"Disculpe, señor," a rich baritone calls from the other side of the narrow road, "usted es Anthony DiNozzo?"

He squints at the man now jogging over toward him, replying with an uncertain, "Um, sí?"

The stranger approaches with a warm smile lighting up his young face. He can't be any older than twenty-five, with smooth tanned skin and bright, dark eyes. He's dressed smartly in pressed charcoal slacks and a white dress shirt with the cuffs turned over his forearms, the top two buttons undone at the collar. A gun is holstered at his hip and his badge reflects brightly beside it. He extends a hand toward Tony and asks flawlessly, "English is okay, yes?"

And Tony nods gratefully, accepting the handshake with a firm grip and a trademark smile, "You must be Agent Salvatella?"

"Call me Diego," Diego replies easily. He opens his mouth to say something else, but the sharp trill of a cell phone interrupts whatever it was he had to say. Tony reaches into his jacket out of instinct, forgetting momentarily that his phone isn't there, that he left it back in D.C., its dismantled pieces in several different locations.

"Hola-" Diego says, but a brisk voice talks over him, muffled sounds loud enough to reach Tony's ears several feet away though the words spoken remain incoherent. Diego rolls his eyes heavenward and Tony offers a look of commiseration because, after all, impatient bosses are a transcontinental occurrence.

"Miguel," Diego continues pleasantly, but his casual air slips from his face as Miguel conveys something else. "Right," Diego agrees, nodding absently, "I understand. Of course. See you in ten. Ciao." And the call is disconnected as the Spaniard sighs.

"My apologies," he says, turning his attention back to Tony, who is doing his best to give the other man some privacy. "That was _el jefe_. Apparently Director Vance has upped the meeting time by a half hour. Your debriefing is in ten minutes."

"How far do we have to go?"

Diego shrugs, walking past Tony and indicating the golf cart parked in the direction in which Diego had come. "Not far."

...

The MTAC feed is set up in a bedroom in one of the on-base houses. A wide screen stretches across the far wall with several computer stations flanking it, a tangle of wires woven across the floor and several chairs gathered around a conference table. The windows have been blacked out with heavy cloth and while the setup isn't D.C. caliber technological, it is impressive.

"Usually," Diego explains, "we do this kind of thing in the main building, but seeing as this is a, ah, _delicate_ _situation_, we decided to take a more covert approach."

Diego takes a seat before a computer, pressing buttons, checking wires, entering an occasional password. Tony follows suit, sinking into the chair beside the younger man, and belatedly realizing that Diego is the resident tech specialist.

The SMPTE colored bars give way to a split screen image of both Vance and Clay Jarvis, the former looking wholly un-amused, as per usual, and the latter looking deceptively amiable.

"Hola," Jarvis begins, "Agents Salvatella, DiNozzo. I see you made it in well."

"Secretary Jarvis," Diego greets, "I did not realize you were joining us, sir."

"Yes, well, I felt my inclusion in this operation was vital."

"Of course, sir," Diego agrees with a nod before turning his attention to the left half of the screen. "Director Vance, it is good to see you again."

"And you, Diego. Now, let's get down to business –there's been a change in the game."

Tony immediately goes on edge, straightening up in his chair, intent on catching every word, every hidden meaning. Because there's been a change of plans, which means the original has been compromised. Which means this may not have been the best of ideas. "What kind of changes?" he asks plainly, a hint of wariness creeping into his voice.

Vance regards him with a stare most likely pilfered from Gibbs before sighing tiredly, "Aleksandra Moreau is dead."

It takes a moment for Tony to catch up, for the news and its every implication to register, and when comprehension finally dawns, it's very evident in the agent's countenance. "Isn't she who I was supposed to be handling?"

"Yes."

"So the mission's scraped?"

"No," and Vance says it like the alternative is obvious.

"No?" Tony parrots dubiously. "With all due respect, Director, Mr. Secretary, how do you conduct a mole hunt without a mole? Or, at least, the one person who actually knew the mole."

Vance presses a button on his computer and a black and white still shot appears on screen.

She's beautiful, in an exotic, indefinable sort of way. Obsidian eyes glance over a slender shoulder as she looks behind her before, presumably, climbing into the dark sedan in the background. Dark hair cascades in loose curls down the back of a heavy coat and her breath plums around her face and it was decidedly cold when the photo was taken. She has a pale, heart-shaped face and strong yet delicate features and a strong, regal presence is conveyed even in the unassuming grayscale image. Tony immediately recognizes the photograph from the file Jarvis had handed him nearly a month ago.

"Aleksandra Elizaveta Moreau, maiden name Tarasova, born December 1, 1981, in Saint Petersburg, Russia," Vance begins, mostly for Diego's benefit since Tony has been read in this far already. "Her mother, a concert cellist, died in 1987; her father, a pharmacist, died last year. Aleksandra attended Saint Petersburg State University, graduating with a degree in international law; which is how we believe she came to be one the most infamous arms dealers in world, and, later, a one of the main go-betweens for exchanging government information. She works mostly with Eastern European nations, but within the past two years it's become apparent that she's extended her services to Middle Eastern groups."

"And she's dead," Diego states for clarification.

"Yes."

"Damn."

"My sentiment exactly, Agent Salvatella."

Another picture appears onscreen, this one of a man in his late thirties, with light colored hair and grey-blue eyes. In the photo, he's watching something off frame, the hint of a smile toying with his mouth. He's handsome, with strong features and a distinguished air similar to Aleksandra's. Neither Tony nor Diego have ever seen this man before.

"Rene Otto Moreau," Vance introduces. "Born November 21, 1971, in a small village outside Toulouse, France. His father left shortly after he was born; he was raised by his mother and grandmother. He attended law school at Harvard University, but was called home to take care of his ailing mother, she died in 1991. He met Ms. Tarasova at the Louvre in Paris in late 1998 –they married in 2006. He's a financial consultant, at least, when he's not with missus.

"They have a flat in Saint Petersburg and in Paris, though they live out of hotels when travelling. The Pentagon believes Aleksandra's worth around 4.8 million.

"They were found dead three days ago on a roadside in rural Russia. Their car had run off the road and they froze to death."

"It was an accident?" Tony asks dubiously.

Vance nods grimly, "As far as we can tell, yes."

"So where does that leave us?" Diego interjects, motioning to himself and Tony.

"Agent DiNozzo," Jarvis says. "You will be assuming the identity of Rene Monreau."

Somehow, Tony manages to keep the shock out of his expression. And, of course, there's a major flaw in this plan: "What about Aleksandra? Isn't she the one with the connections?"

Jarvis nods and Vance obtains the appearance of someone incredibly piqued. "There's another agent in place already as Aleksandra. Listen, Agent DiNozzo, this is an extremely sensitive matter, all our efforts made in last decade overseas can be compromised with this leak, the mole must be dealt with as soon as possible. Failure of the mission is not optional. Am I understood?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you have no reservations about taking on this operation, you understand what you must do, what you may lose?"

McGee, Abby, Gibbs.

Ziva.

_I have nothing left to lose, sir._

"Yes, sir."

"Agent Salvatella," Jarvis turns to face Diego, who sits up straighter in his chair. "You're the point man as we discussed."

"Sí, señor."

"You're DiNozzo's only connection to our world."

"Sí, señor. I understand."

"Do either of you have any questions, any concerns?" Speak now or forever hold your peace.

Tony and Diego exchange glances, and both men shake their heads. Jarvis looks pleased and Vance still maintains the appearance of having a bad taste in his mouth.

Jarvis smiles, "In that case, Operation Antenora is a go. Good luck, gentlemen."


End file.
